


violence is permissible even desirable occasionally

by myhandisempty



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: M/M, here have 9k of earlyish shield era ambreigns pwp because i can, i have obviously lost control of my life
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-27
Updated: 2015-10-27
Packaged: 2018-04-28 13:03:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,128
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5091776
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myhandisempty/pseuds/myhandisempty
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I want to fuck you,” he admits, before he can think better of it, then takes another long drag, blows the smoke out slowly toward Roman, watching him the entire time. Not an inch of that carved granite face so much as flinches. “Or fight you. Not sure which.”</p><p>In which Dean Ambrose has 99 problems, which boil down to one, because Roman Reigns is directly responsible for all of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	violence is permissible even desirable occasionally

**Author's Note:**

> I have written and continue to write a lot. A lot of stories, a lot of words, everyday. But this is, perhaps, my favorite standalone thing I have ever written. It sat unfinished for a long time, as I debated whether it should ever see anyone's eyes but mine, because I didn't want to subject it to scrutiny or have anyone tell me that it was any less good than I whole-heartedly believe it to be. But, I know how I feel, I know what I believe, and I hope that someone else finds it as interesting as I do.
> 
> Title is from Jenny Holzer's Truisms, because sometimes I am pretentious as fuck.

“Order me, like, two pounds of firecracker rolls. Extra wasabi. Or a pepperoni jalapeño pizza.”

Dean has been hungry for the last three hours, and he’s made sure that Seth is well aware of it ever since they saw that gourmet pizza place on the road. Seth shoots him a glare from the bed nearest the door where he’s resting, having driven most of the trip himself.

“I’m not ordering you shit,” he snipes back, even though he’s the one by the phone, and Dean should have known this was coming. Did, if he’s honest. Seth is always such a little asshole about things like this, about any member of the team being somewhere other than where he feels they should be (well, Roman, at least—he probably doesn’t do this when it’s Dean who’s not around). His reaction makes Dean want to press all his buttons.

“’S good, since I didn’t ask for that,” Dean agrees cheerfully, grin in place, doing his damndest to ignore Seth’s killjoy attitude. He’s fidgeting on the bed, painting the room a sort of melancholy blue-silver that the rapidly dimming late afternoon sun seeping in through the blinds can’t warm. Cool colors, those are electric. Buzzing energy. Usually nervous. Dean leans back in the rolling office chair and tries to ignore it, arms tossed casually behind his head. “I specified tuna and avocado. Let’s see it.” One hand raises lazily and wiggles fingers in a ‘come on’ motion.

Seth scoffs loudly. It seems to echo, though the room’s not that big. “And I didn’t ask for you to be a pain in my ass, but we’ve both lived the last several hours, so.” Truthfully, Dean’s not offended. He’s not even annoyed. Not by the comment, at least. It’s nearly his personal goal in life to be a pain in Seth’s ass, one way or another.

“Well, god damn, babe,” he drawls, adds a wink for good measure when he catches Seth’s eye, just to watch the red sting of embarrassed aggravation roll across his face. “Could have just said something. Here we are with some precious alone time. I’d let you be a pain in _my_ ass on the bed. Or the floor. Shower’s game, too.”

He can tease about it freely, now, because Seth is curious, though he won’t ever admit it, and he’s probably never actually going to put out. They’ve been this, whatever this is, for too long. Not that Dean wouldn’t jump on the chance, if it ever materialized. Seth wouldn’t, though. Something about upsetting the delicate balance, he thinks. Dean’s not too worried about falling from the tightrope, but it is what it is.

If only Seth knew what depraved sorts of things he wants from other people. That would upset some things pretty quickly, Dean’s sure. And, he stops that train before it can leave the station. He’s not thinking about that.

The way Seth flusters as he tries to formulate a response, all gaping mouth and faux anger, is fascinating. “You’re—you’re so ridiculous,” is all he manages to come up with. It’s weak, and kind of pathetic. One of these days, Dean is going to wear him down. Sooner, rather than later, he expects.

“And yet, you’re still looking.” Dean grins at him, throws a balled up piece of paper from the monogrammed pad on the hotel desk. Seth frowns and sticks his tongue out, just enough to fool Dean into thinking he’s ready to settle down and relax. No such luck.

Roman caught a ride with Cesaro, claiming he wanted to do some catching up or some shit. Whatever, Dean won’t judge. Does him some good, actually. Which he still isn’t thinking about. Seth’s not happy about it though, laying back down, staring up at the ceiling like it’s got answers for him. Dean snorts, pulls his right leg up onto the chair next to him. Good luck, kid, he thinks. Never did work well for him, anyway.

Seth never answers him, and Dean would keep poking for a reaction, because he knows how to get one out of Seth well enough, at least, unlike with certain other people, and there he goes thinking about the one thing he promised himself he was going to put away for now.

He has a Problem.

Which, normally, isn’t a problem. At least not for him. Most of his dilemmas, nowadays, can be settled inside the ring, or out of it, with the pounding of his fists into faces, with the weight of his boot into stomachs, and that’s enough for him to be satisfied. He doesn’t even need the victory arm raise, his name or his team’s announced via loudspeaker as if anyone was confused over his triumph. Just the feeling of standing over someone else, knowing that he can prove his point, just this once, is enough.

Every once in a while, though, something sneaks under his skin before he can catch it, clings to him before he can shake it off.

See, the thing is, Dean gets a little too attached to certain people, sometimes. Grabs hold of them and claws at them and sinks his teeth in until they can’t ignore him anymore. It’s a Problem. Or, at least, it becomes one when they fail to acknowledge what he wants. The focus, the dedication, the space in his brain they take up, all distracting him from higher goals. Dean gets stuck, digs his barbs in, refuses to move on. Can’t, no matter how much he wants to. He was obsessed with Seth, back in FCW, for a period of months, and with Regal, and now the same goddamn thing is happening with Roman fucking Reigns.

It’s the eyes, mostly. Not the color—though that’s alluring, too, the brown-grey-whatever-the-fuck, he can’t figure it out—no, this is something harder to define. He forgets what it looks like when it’s not in his sights. The first time he saw it was a few months ago, a pay-per-view match, when Roman was in the ring with Cena. Cena locked in the STF, and there, just for a split second, something had flashed across Roman’s face, something like awe and shock and pain, all rolled into one. Nothing special. At least, it shouldn’t have been. But Roman was always so stoic and unreadable, infuriating without doing a _single fucking thing_ , and Dean’s whole body was hot, burning, on fire. He launched himself through the ropes before he even realized he was moving. It wasn’t about saving the match, though.

It was because that look should have been his.

It’s still not, months later. He’s the United States Champion, now, standing tall with gold around his waist for the first time since signing with WWE two years ago, and the whole thing feels hollow because all Dean wants, the majority of the time, is Roman Reigns staring up at him like he’s meeting his maker. Like Dean could tear him apart. Maybe even like Roman would want him to.

What’s even worse is that he’s starting to notice other things, too. Well, not starting, exactly. It’s kind of difficult to imagine anyone wouldn’t immediately notice and appreciate Roman’s physical attributes. Dean certainly did, when they first met in Tampa. Six-foot-something of fairly chiseled muscle nicely wrapped in a tiny pair of black trunks? Dean’s not blind. He grabbed as many eyefuls as he could. It’s the little things, now, like the way he moves sometimes, muscles gracefully coiling and releasing. The way his completed tattoo makes his arm look better, despite distracting from the bicep and deltoid. The way the sharp lines of it make Dean wonder how well they’d stand out against a layer of black and blue underneath.

The man is a walking wet dream. It’s disgusting. Dean wants to beat in his statuesque face.

He’s been thinking about it a lot, Roman’s body and Roman’s eyes and the way he wants them on him. He’s also been thinking a lot about how much he’s been thinking about it. Which is something Dean tries to avoid, whenever possible, the thinking too much, because those thoughts have a way of filling up his head, swarming, buzzing insects that drown out everything else, that he can’t get rid of no matter how hard he tries.

It hasn’t reached that place yet, but it will. It always does. That’s the point, maybe. That’s when things get fun.

The tricky part is that he’s at a loss. Three months later and he’s still no closer to figuring it out. He’s used to using what he can do in the ring to grab people’s attention, making them eat his forearms until they _have_ to look up at him. Doesn’t really apply, here. Not when they’re on the same side. Which leaves him to talk his way in. Something he knows, beyond a shadow of a doubt, he can do. Doesn’t matter if it ends up with Roman’s fist cracking against his cheekbone or wrapped around his dick. Both sound better than where he is now.

Dean just doesn’t know how to make it happen, or really even how to start.

Truthfully, he doesn’t know a lot of things. But he has good instincts, and he’s pretty sure they’ll point him the right way in time.

For now, he’s stuck in this little hotel room somewhere in Canada.

They’re sitting in relative silence, him and Seth, minus the little noises coming from Dean tapping fingers against the table, against the hard plastic arm of the chair, bouncing his knee up and down, because it sounds blank. He doesn’t like empty spaces. Blank is worse than the buzzing thoughts—it helps to cause them, and then there’s this dichotomy of silence surrounding Dean and the jumbled up clattering in his head and that’s when his body starts doing weird things, like zoning out and trapping him in his mind and making him lose time. But Seth seems to be in no mood to talk, so Dean’s being as close to patient as he can until he stops acting like a melodramatic prick.

Seth twitches again, rustling the comforter around him. Jesus Christ, Dean can _feel_ the electric energy pouring off of him, draping the room in a heavy, charged blanket. How the hell is he supposed to relax like this?

They’ve been in the room around an hour, no real conversation to speak of, when the click of the lock deactivating grabs Dean’s attention.

He glances up casually and watches as Roman appears in the doorway, striding in with his stupid fitting jeans and his tight black t-shirt and his hair in the usual bun thing. Oh, great. The shirt’s a v-neck, so Dean can see the length of his neck, the jut where his collarbones begin. Perfect. Just perfect. He looks so fucking good that Dean’s starting to get pissed. Where the hell does Roman get off looking like that? Who gave him permission? Not Dean, that’s for damn sure.

His bicep is flexed as he carries the large bag flung over his shoulder, title resting on the other. Looks like it was fucking made for him. All those belts do. Dean finds himself staring and biting at the side of his finger. He thinks he might hate Roman Reigns.

“Hey man,” Seth breathes out like he’s been holding it this entire time. Roman is a calming influence for him, a grounding wire, discharging all the static in the air, looking no worse for wear. Dean doesn’t get it. He doesn’t get how that works, how they can do that just by looking at each other, because Dean looks at Roman and all he feels is every part of his body tensing until he wishes the muscles and bones would just snap. And, God, he’s well aware Dean Ambrose’ll never fucking be a comforting presence for anyone, but it’d be nice to feel like he’s not driving Seth slowly insane. At least, not by accident. “How’s the drive?”

Soft, bright smile on his face, like he hadn’t spent the last four hours being completely insufferable because Roman skipped out on team bonding time. Fucking amazing.

“Full of trees,” Roman says wryly, dumping his backpack to the ground next to where he’s stopped his rolling suitcase, setting the championship belt gently on top of it. After he straightens up, he jumps onto the bed next to Seth. Their arms are touching, the cool colors overlapping. Seth is blue in this moment and Roman, he’s always blue. “We eating?”

Seth leans back on the headboard, pulls his feet in to sit cross-legged against it. “Just waiting on you. Whaddya want?”

“We’re getting sushi,” Dean interjects before Roman has a chance to ask for something that sounds completely unappetizing, like a fucking Mediterranean deli or something. A likely choice. “Thought I made that clear while you were, y’know, busy not ordering me food.”

He feels even more discomfort now that the almost-silence is gone. This one is prickling, phantom spider legs scratching over his skin rather than the rough, white noise of before. Dean runs a hand up and down his upper arm, casually rubbing it to chase the feeling away. In case there actually is something there. Seth and Roman are both staring at him like he’s intruded into their private little world. It’s really fucking weird, mostly because it isn’t weird at all, like the first time you realize your parents are something to each other and that they aren’t only here just for you. If Dean squints a little too hard, he can sort of remember the feeling.

Doesn’t mean he likes it.

His fingers drum against the armrest again, but he’s not satisfied with the noise, this time. Seth is eyeing him a little warily, like Dean’s substantially more combustible than usual, which is a laugh because he feels like he’s been this antsy and impatient the whole time.

“We could get sushi,” Roman nods like some benevolent benefactor, and it’s just too much to take. Seth’s prissy attitude is too much and the way Roman looks, how he fills Dean with this tight static buzzing is definitely too much, Roman is too much in general.

“Wow, m’so grateful for your blessing, Rome,” Dean grits out, his hand balled into a fist so tight that his blunt fingernails are starting to sting against his palm. This room is too small for three grown men. It’s a little bigger than their normal rooms, but still too small. “Wasn’t aware I needed permission to eat whatever the fuck I want.” Seth’s eyes actually double in size, which would be hilarious if Roman wasn’t such an asshole.

Said asshole lifts his hands in the air, palms forward in a placating gesture. “I’m not giving you permission?” Roman glances at Seth, because he’s always their intermediary, but Dean is right fucking _here_ and he can’t stop looking at Roman so Roman is not allowed to look away from him.

“Look at me!” he shouts, loud enough to make them both jump. “Fucking look at me when I’m talking to you!”

He’s so transparent. He’s as pathetic as Seth, except at least he’s asking for what he wants, even if it is in the most desperate way possible.

The room’s too small, and Dean needs air as quickly as possible.

He passes Roman’s luggage on his way out, reaching fingers out to brush against the nameplate of the title that was over his shoulder minutes before, and the resulting tingling in his arm has him slamming the side of his fist into the hallway wall.

He takes the stairs, two at a time, so the elevator can’t delay his escape if they decide to chase after him.

\---

It’s raining outside. Of course it fucking is. It’s always raining. He pulls a cigarette out of the pack he keeps stashed in his jacket, upset with himself and the way his hands shake slightly as he brings it to his mouth and lights the end. He’d quit, or thought he did, or tried, at least. Dean’s always had a little trouble with letting go, though.

There’s open air between the awning of the hotel and the next building over. The smoke hanging around him, Dean walks between the two, letting the heavy droplets fall all over him. The rain makes everything look less vibrant in comparison, grey and dull, makes his heart pound just that tiny bit harder in his chest. Makes his anger and explosion seem like such bullshit. He tilts his head up for a second, closes his eyes, lets the water slide down his face. It’s softer than what he wants, but at least if feels like something—at least it will touch him, even if Roman won’t. Puts yet another barrier between Dean and _them_. Seth will have to work for it if he comes down here. The thought almost puts a smile on Dean’s face.

It’s _always_ Seth that chases after him whenever he storms off, if they deem it necessary for anyone to follow him at all. Depends how much he’s scaring them, Dean guesses. And they should be frightened, really, because Dean has a lot of blades at his disposal and he’s itching to carve out this particular part. He’s sick of always being the one doing the looking, the watching, always being the desperate one. He wants it gone. Almost doesn’t matter who’s collateral damage.

He takes shelter under the bank next door, watches the people scattering around with their umbrellas. Too many black ones. He doesn’t even spot a plain blue one. How dull and boring. He finishes his smoke and lights another immediately, because if he’s going to feel bad about himself then he’s going to do it thoroughly.

“You have a thing for dramatic exits,” Dean hears from behind him. Huh, color him surprised. Despite his best efforts not to, he wonders if Seth sent Roman down or if he came of his own accord. It’s never mattered before to Dean _how_ he gets to destinations—by whatever means necessary, he’ll make it there. But he’s curious all the same.

He turns around and instantly regrets it. Roman’s still wearing that t-shirt, the one that’s quickly becoming Dean’s arch nemesis, which is not-quite-soaked and hugging him just right, and for whatever reason, he’s shaken his hair out of the tie that was holding it. The locks are cascading down around him, plastered to his shoulders and the sides of his face by the rain, and Dean watches a few errant water droplets slide down and over his collarbone. He looks good. He looks so fucking good. Dean wants to destroy that, the goodness—he’s found he’s pretty decent at that. Or maybe just destroy Roman.

Dean wants to wreck him.

“Gotta keep you on your toes somehow.”

He smiles, the cigarette burning away between his fingers. Hopes it’s sharp. Hopes Roman knows that this is just the very beginning, that they’ll keep doing this over and over until Roman realizes that the rain is actually the waves violently rocking the ship at sea, and Dean’s the jagged, rocky shore just waiting to be crashed against. Until Dean says it’s enough.

He snickers at the analogy. Roman quirks an eyebrow, his lips twitching up slightly to one side, but is otherwise unmoved. It’s so like him that Dean laughs again. That’s really what this comes down to, isn’t it? He’s a violent blaze, spitting flames, and Roman’s so cool and unaffected he’s nearly glacial. Dean could melt him, if he tried, but the water will just extinguish him in the end. Roman’s his kryptonite. But, fuck, man, what a way to go.

“So?” Roman asks, waiting patiently, though for what Dean’s not really sure. His eyebrow’s still raised, and Dean fleetingly thinks about pressing the burning end of the cigarette against his own palm. Thinks it would feel better than the way Roman looks at him. “What’s got you so angry with me?”

And that’s the thing, because Dean isn’t even mad at _him_. Not about this. He wishes he was, because anger makes everything easier, gives him both something to hide behind and ammunition to fire. But Roman seems to be fine, with Seth, and he’s not feeling whatever dark, smoldering things are burning up Dean’s veins from the inside out. This is something broken in him. Roman’s just a convenient target.

“’M not. You’re so wrong. You’re so wrong all the time.”

Because he is, when it comes to Dean. Dean’s pretty sure he’s never been wrong about Roman.

Roman snorts, and it’s kind of beautiful, in a way, to know that he’s capable of such an ugly sound. That maybe he’s human like the rest of them, after all. “Right,” he says, unconvinced, shivering ever so slightly from the cold t-shirt sticking to him. His arms cross, and Dean’s eyes are drawn to the lines of his tattoo. “What exactly is your problem, then, Dean?”

Dean grins in what he’s sure is more a baring of teeth than anything. Isn’t sure that his lips actually pull up at all. The question is loaded, and Dean’s first instinct is to lash out with all the offense he takes. But. But he could tell Roman. He could tell Roman and watch his face cloud over and let him be angry at Dean, too, so that Dean isn’t the only one. Maybe he can ruin this entire thing, before it goes any further, and then—

“I want to fuck you,” he admits, before he can think better of it, then takes another long drag, blows the smoke out slowly toward Roman, watching him the entire time. Not an inch of that carved granite face so much as flinches. It’s completely fucking unacceptable, not what he needs at all. Is he allowed to say he needs it? Have things gone that far? Anger sparks alongside the smoke in his lungs. “Or fight you. Not sure which is more important.”

Neither. Doesn’t matter. He’s not getting either. In his experience, that’s how this works. He hasn’t yelled and shouted and made a loud enough noise yet. He’s still sharpening his teeth. With Roman, he wants to make sure the bite marks stick.

All Roman does is nod almost imperceptibly, as if he already knew. Big fucking surprise, there. Seth knows what Dean wants and won’t let it happen. Roman must have puzzled out Dean’s sneering and staring by now.

Dean’s suddenly upset that he just gave the game up that easily. Should have made Roman work for it.

“Why not both?” Roman murmurs, like it’s that simple. He’s barely audible over the water smacking against the pavement. Then, it’s as if the rain stops altogether and the question is all Dean can hear, over and over. _Why not both, why not both, why not both_. He blinks at Roman a couple times, head tilted, while the words process in his brain. Sounds too much like an invitation not to be. It’s too easy. Nothing ever gets handed to him like this.

Roman is a big guy, a lot of strength behind those appealing muscles and life in them, too, but Dean is faster, has momentum and the element of surprise on his side. He crashes into Roman, pushing him against the wall of the building they’ve taken shelter underneath. Loses his cigarette in the process. He brings the long lines of their bodies together, shoves his knee between Roman’s legs, his thigh rubbing exactly where he wants it. Good. Yeah, feels like that belongs there.

Roman at least has the decency to appear a bit stunned, Dean notes, and it warms his chest in a strange way. So close to and yet so far from what he actually wants. He brings his hand up to Roman’s throat, laying pressure there but not squeezing.

They’ve gotten into each other’s space, before, but this is the closest Dean has ever been to Roman’s face. It’s just as perfect as it looks from further away, the kind of thing that’s begging to be smashed apart so that the beauty will be better appreciated when it’s gone. As it is, there’s a burning in Dean’s eyes, so much so that he has to narrow them as they stand facing off. Roman’s mimic the movement. There’s a light dusting of freckles across the bridge of his nose that Dean has never noticed before, and he nearly groans at the sight. Fucking hell, the things he could do to this man.

“Don’t. Don’t do that,” Dean warns. Jesus Christ, he reeks of desperation. He hopes Roman can’t hear it in his voice. He slides his hand down to the base of Roman’s neck, stroking the bump of a collarbone lightly. He leans more weight onto that hand, the one against the wall supporting him with fingertips only. “Don’t say that kind of shit to me unless you can back it. Because I will make you pay up.”

A few things happen all at once. This low growl releases from Roman’s throat, the vibration of it rumbling under Dean’s hand, and his eyes actually _sparkle_ , like he’s looking forward to this, like he’s just as big a masochist as Dean is, and Dean feels his own cock start to harden. Roman’s hands reach out, rest against Dean’s chest, not pushing him away. They trail down his sides before attempting to pull him even further into Roman, as if that were possible. Dean feels the stirring of Roman’s dick against his thigh. It’s delicious.

Roman’s smirking at him, still holding them close together as if Dean was thinking about backing off at all. “I’d like to see you try.” He’s so smug, trying to goad Dean into something he wants anyway. It’s infuriating. Roman doesn’t get to win. He doesn’t.

“Well, seeing as you need to be put in your fucking place,” Dean accuses, sharp and angry, before bringing their lips together.

It’s less a kiss and more a punch with his mouth, hard and bruising against Roman’s. There’s an opening for his tongue, slight but there, and Dean doesn’t hesitate to take it, moving it in hard jabs against Roman’s own. The hands that were pressing him against Roman’s chest are now gripping the back of Dean’s head, pulling roughly at his hair. The sting is nice, better than that, even, but this is about something else, now, so Dean grabs at Roman’s wrists and slams them against the wall, pinning them above his head, biting down hard on his lip in the process.

Roman gives a quiet shout of pain as he pulls away that has Dean grinning wide, baring all his teeth. There’s the slightest trace of a tangy, iron taste on his tongue that makes him feel dizzy, and Roman’s lip is swollen already. Good. This is a good start. He tightens his fingers around the bones between them, wonders how much pressure it takes to leave bruises against the skin.

Roman doesn’t even complain about the smoky smell or taste, just dives back into Dean, who sees red when Roman kisses him. Red like scraped knuckles, like bloody mouths, like heat and sparks and his own heart thudding against his rib cage. Roman’s arms are tugging away from the wall and Dean’s admittedly a bit distracted by what he’s doing with his tongue. _This is what suffocating feels like_ , he thinks, lightheaded and heavy bodied and breathless. He releases Roman’s wrists and tangles his hands in the long hair, giving it an experimental tug of his own. Roman moans into his mouth and Dean finally smirks and thinks, _got you_.

A distant crack of thunder sidetracks Dean, brings him back to the reality around him, the one with a steadily increasing downpour and the street that’s still remarkably full of people despite the rain and the waiting hotel room that isn’t at all empty.

“Shit,” he breathes out, resting his forehead against Roman’s shoulder for a moment. Briefly considers digging his teeth into the flesh, there, but his breathing’s still all messed up and shaky and he needs to settle himself halfway back in his skin.

“Something wrong, tiger?” The words sound nonchalant, almost amused, even. He sighs heavily, feels Roman chuckle at him. The vibration ricochets around his own chest. Doesn’t really help with the come down.

Yeah, everything’s wrong. This feels kind of fucked up and weird and uncomfortable—which makes it all the more appealing to Dean—but he still can’t make any of that show on Roman’s face.

“Eh, bad timing, I guess. I’m a pretty open minded guy, but even I don’t want to fuck you with Seth sitting there watching.” Well. That’s not entirely true. Sounds incredible, actually, but this is something a little different. Something that’s been brewing inside of him for a while, now, that feels wild and out of control already, and all Roman had to do was kiss Dean back to make his head spin like a top.

Roman laughs again, his hand drifting over Dean’s head where it rests, as if he wants to touch it, before coming down to rest against his waist. “Not a problem,” he says, even though Dean really doesn’t want to have to pick this up later. “I mean, it won’t be. You don’t have to worry about that. I sent him on an errand so, we probably have, like, an hour with the room to ourselves. If you’re game.” Dean picks his head up and just stares at him. This is—this is so much to take in. Roman came down here expecting something like this. Dean’s not sure how he feels about that. Or about the fact that Seth might know.

The way the words ramble, rushing over each other, nervous—yeah, that’s much easier to decide he likes.

He wants to kiss Roman again, but there’s a lot of things that Dean wants to do, and by the time he’s done, this might be the only opportunity he gets. He needs to get to them all.

He backs away from Roman and misses the physical contact immediately. “Move your ass, then,” he gripes, watching said ass as Roman leads the way back to the hotel, Dean trailing just far enough behind. “Don’t wanna get caught only halfway done.”

\---

Dean is nearly too impatient to wait for the elevator, overanxious as he is, but if they take the stairs they might not even make it back to the room. He’d just end up pinning Roman to the wall again and going to town right there, and he needs more space than that for this. Doesn’t really want anyone to see, anyway. No one else climbs into the car with them, and Dean barely lets Roman hit the button for five before he’s grabbing a handful of that goddamn shirt and digging fingers into the exposed hip.

It’s so hot in here. Everything is red, red, red, and for the first time, he thinks Roman might be, too.

“Gonna leave bruises there for weeks. Too bad you don’t wrestle in trunks anymore. Everyone would see, they’d know.” he murmurs, mouthing gently at the spot just behind Roman’s ear. “But you’ll know, won’t you, and I will, and that’s enough.”

Roman shudders, either at the words or his wet clothing or Dean’s breath against the side of his neck, and his hips rock just so slightly against him that Dean nearly laughs. _Not so smug now, are you_ , he thinks proudly, but when the elevator door opens, Dean finds his back against the hallway wall in a flash. No.

“No, nuh uh,” he sing songs, dodging Roman’s mouth as it tries to meet his. He wants that dizzy high again so much that it nearly hurts, brushing off the kiss. “Not here. Room, now.” Roman sighs at that, heavy and drawn-out, like Dean is personally testing him.

When Roman’s backed off, Dean grabs his wrist again, the one with the tattoo, and thinks about bruises on top of bruises, of Roman’s blue and his red coming together to form the purple. He manages to fumble the door open with his card while never letting his eyes stray from Roman, who’s watching him more intently than he ever has. Dean leads him into the room, shoves him back into the wall so hard he can hear the crack of Roman’s head against it.

Maybe they should have a safe word. Dean wants to hurt Roman, maybe even make him bleed, but for all his big talk, he doesn’t want to _hurt_ him.

The distraction costs him. Before he can say anything about it, Roman’s gained the upper hand, tackling Dean onto the nearest bed, the one he and Seth were on before, the whole weight of his body behind it. Knocks the breath out of his lungs. When Dean starts struggling, Roman locks up with him and goes for a hold, and Dean feels his laugh bubbling out of his throat more than he hears it. It’s like opening the door of his apartment after a long week and sinking into the ratty couch he’s had for years and still somehow hasn’t been able to get rid of. Familiar, comfortable. Pleasureable, in an odd way.

Wrestling with the right partner, in its purest form, _should_ be like foreplay. That’s something Seth never really understood, even if he did a great fucking job of it, and something that Dean hasn’t gotten nearly enough of from Roman. Magic can happen in the ring, but Dean thinks that, for it to, you maybe have to be at least a little in love with your opponent. Or in lust, anyway. Not that that’s why all his matches against Seth somehow managed to take his breath away, but. It isn’t really _not_ why, either.

He throws an elbow back and connects with Roman’s side, cranking his arm back and away from Dean’s throat at the same time to escape the chinlock. Roman makes a dull sound of pain before he’s grabbing for Dean again, who tries to wrench Roman’s arm behind him, but Roman drops all his weight on top of Dean again and uses the other arm to hold him down.

Roman is able to pin Dean’s shoulders to the mat(tress) for an unofficial two-count, but he didn’t hook the leg, and Dean uses that to create leverage, flip them over. A flash of surprise in Roman’s eyes that causes this buzzing in Dean’s brain. A good one, though, one that rattles in his bones and resettles them as he sinks into the space between Roman’s legs.

“Fuck, I wanna just. I want a match with you.” He can’t stop his mouth, murmuring these things into Roman’s neck as he nips at it with lips and teeth. There’s something humming just under his skin and he needs Roman to touch him yesterday. “Want a match, wanna get my hands all over you in front of the whole world. Y’know?” Dean knows they’re on the same team, he _knows_ , but that’s not the most important thing right now.

Roman shifts under him, the slide of his body against Dean’s perfect, and it’s so easy, it’s the easiest thing in the world to touch him. Why did he wait so long to do it? “Yeah,” Roman agrees in an exhale. “Yeah, I know.”

Dean laughs, breathless with it. “Don’t even care who wins. Let you pin me.” Roman scoffs at him.

“No, you wouldn’t. Doesn’t mean I couldn’t.”

Dean smiles against the curve where Roman’s neck meets his shoulder, where he can hide it from view. To make up for it, he sinks his teeth into the skin there, easing off before it breaks. Roman groans underneath him and tries to buck him off, but Dean’s settled himself in, now, and the move really only succeeds in rubbing their groins together.

It’s only then that Dean realizes they’re both still fully dressed, and his damp leather jacket suddenly feels stifling. Roman blinks, too, as if he’s just recognized as well. “We’re getting the bed all wet.” Maybe his hair is, Dean thinks.

He leans back and shrugs the jacket off his shoulders. “Shut up,” he tells Roman, grabs his chin in one hand and plants a kiss right at his hairline. “Doesn’t matter.” Seth can sleep on the other one, tonight. Dean debates for a second, and then sits up once more and strips his shirt off. It gets caught on his head, despite his insistent tugging, and Roman starts laughing and doesn’t move to help even a little. Dean is laughing, too, by the time he gets it off, and his cheeks feel hot and so does his chest and Roman’s looking at him like this is the best thing to happen to him all month—which it can’t be, he won a championship just seven days ago, they both did, they all did—and Dean has just enough time to wonder if this all isn’t a big mistake before Roman runs a hand down his stomach and rests it on the buckle of his belt.

“Lot of talk, not much action,” he teases Dean, slowly unbuckling it and pulling the leather out of the loops. Dean idly wonders what Roman would do if he started whipping him with it. “So, business as usual, huh?”

Dean snarls at the smile on his face. He blinks for a second, then grabs hold of Roman’s v-neck and rips the offending garment in half from his body. It’s extremely gratifying.

“I win,” he mumbles at his vanquished foe as Roman glares daggers at him. It’s a fucking t-shirt. Roman will buy a hundred more to torture him with later. But apparently the move sparked something in him, and he bucks up against Dean once more, the roll of his hips drawing a moan out of him. He leverages his body into a sitting position and just fucking _attacks_ Dean’s neck.

It feels amazing, having Roman’s lips there, the scratch of hair on his face a sharp contrast to where Dean just shaved today. The sensations make him shiver, each little quake going directly to his cock, and when Roman bites down just below his jaw, it draws a long, throaty, “Fuh-huck,” out of his mouth.

He pushes Roman back down into the bed, hands and eyes taking the time to trail his bare torso for the first time. His abs aren’t super defined, but they’re visible, just the way Dean likes, and his arms have always been incredible. “You ever get sick of it?” Dean asks, running his fingers through the divot below Roman’s hip bone, pausing just before they dip under his waistband.

“Of what?”

“Being the most disgustingly gorgeous thing in sight.” Dean taps the side of Roman’s face once, twice, not hard enough to be a slap. Still is considering beating his face in for it, someday. Not right now, though.

Roman doesn’t answer. Dean didn’t expect him to.

He unbuttons Roman’s jeans, pulling them down his legs as quickly as he can. He slides off the end of the bed with them while Roman kicks his shoes and socks off. Dean does the same, stopping a moment to just take in the sight. It’s not any more undressed than he’s seen Roman before, but it’s been a long fucking time and Dean was never allowed to touch him, not back then.

He’s wasting precious time, but this, this is almost enough—Roman eyeing him from the bed, just waiting. He looks bigger than usual in the small room, laid out like that, larger than life, like if he stood up his head would break the ceiling and he could crush Dean’s skull in one hand.

Dean cannot wait to fuck him.

He drops his own jeans to the floor, along with the boxer briefs that were becoming a bit too constricting. Roman’s watching his every move, and those eyes on him are familiar, too. He pauses again, rooted in spot, and for the first time Dean considers that maybe he wasn’t the only one looking.

Dean has only ever known two ways to get people to look at him—wrestling and sex. He can make as loud a noise as he wants, but those are the only times when people really shut up and pay attention. He’s good, he’s fucking great at both of them, but Roman’s only been up against him once and they’ve never shared a bed without space and clothing between them. He’s not really sure why Roman would be looking in the first place. After this, though, Dean’s gonna make damn sure that he can’t look away.

Roman cracks a smile at him, a bit strained around the edges, like the silence is making him anxious, or maybe like he’s about to explode if Dean doesn’t get his hands back on him now. Dean can appreciate the feeling, something similar simmering just under the surface of his skin. “Get your lazy ass back over here.”

Dean crawls onto the bed, back up to where Roman’s waiting. “My ass is far from lazy,” he grins, slowly situating himself on Roman’s lap, grinding down against Roman’s cock straining against the fabric. Roman’s eyes roll back in his head a little, and this is the best fucking power trip Dean has ever been on. “Not that you’ll be reaping any benefits from that. Your ass is the one getting the workout, tonight.”

Before Roman can respond, Dean captures his lips in a searing kiss, and it’s just as good as the last one, all heat and slick tongue and spinning head. He’s so warm, burning up, and Roman’s hands running up his back are even hotter. Dean doesn’t know where all his ice went. He’s panting into Roman’s mouth by the time they break. “I wanna blow you,” Dean mumbles against Roman’s lips, and Roman doesn’t respond, but his dick twitches under Dean, and that seems like a good sign. Really, if he’s going to dismantle Roman, this is the best way to start. Dean has always prided himself on giving great head, and he hasn’t even seen Roman yet but he _knows_ he wants this. “Lemme just, lemme—“ He scrambles back down the bed. A little too fast, maybe, but he’s losing time every second, and hooks two fingers of each hand in the waistband of Roman’s boxers, pulling them down and watching his cock spring out.

It’s impressive. Dean wasn’t really imagining anything less, what with the way the rest of him looks, but it’s good to know his expectations have been completely fucking shattered. Kind of Roman in a nutshell, really. He wraps his hand around the base of the shaft, not tentative in the least, and gives two quick strokes.

And normally, this is the part where he’d glance up through his eyelashes, maybe give a calculatedly shy grin and spout something off like “I’m gonna blow your mind”, but he’s burning up and the whole damn room is red and he’s been wanting this so long it doesn’t feel real, being here now, like he has to finish before the dream is over.

He brings his lips around Roman, taking him into his mouth—nails of his left hand digging into the soft flesh of Roman’s thigh, the hard muscle underneath—as Roman’s hand tangles in his hair. He’s pulling again, stinging enough to leave bright, white stars bursting in front of Dean’s eyes, so Dean closes them and groans his appreciation, and feels vindicated in the sound of Roman’s responding moan.

“Oh, fuck,” Roman’s saying, his voice a little raspy and wet, like Dean is hot enough to melt him after all, “fuck, _fuck_ ,” and that’s good, it’s so fucking good, but he sounds too far away, towering above Dean, and Dean still hasn’t seen his eyes, hasn’t seen just what they look like, red.

He pulls off Roman, who gives something like a gasp, and hurries over to his bag. Roman actually growls at him when he returns, anger on his face at the fact that Dean dared to stop in the middle of sucking him off, and a brand new wave of pleasure buzzes through Dean. “What are you smiling about?” Roman asks him, a hint of challenge in his voice, and in response Dean simply pops the cap off the lube and coats his fingers with it.

One second he’s reaching down in between Roman’s legs, and the next, he’s staring up at him. “Wha—” When did Roman get so fast? The fuck is going on?

“You wanted a fight, didn’t you?” Roman asks, voice little more than a rumble. “Think I’m just gonna bend over for you? Because I think you’d look better under _me_.”

“You motherfucker,” Dean spits, suddenly furious, and when Roman kisses him, probably to shut him up, Dean tries to bite his tongue as it slides into his mouth. Roman backs off, after that, but starts kissing his way down Dean’s body. “I’m gonna get you for this, you’re gonna fuckin’ pay.” A little tongue around Dean’s nipple has him hissing a shaky breath out, but when Roman’s teeth sink into the v of his hip, he can’t hold in the sound. “Ahh!”

Down between his legs, Roman’s smirking, looking so fucking pleased with himself, and he stares right into Dean’s eyes through the hair falling in front of his own as his tongue comes out to swirl across the head of his cock before he sucks him down.

“Fuck!” Roman pulls off of him, fucking cocktease, tongue tracing a line up the side of his dick. When he reaches the head, again, Dean watches him purse his lips before sinking down again, and the suction is amazing.

It’s great, better than it has any right to be, not least of all because Dean had never really expected Roman Reigns to be a champion cocksucker, but the man doesn’t seem fazed in the least. He sucks Dean with long, deep pulls, holding his shaft in a tight grip. It’s the most aggressive blow job he’s ever been on the receiving end of. Dean notices Roman watching him, a look of challenge in his eyes. Fuck him. He’s not better at this than Dean. He’s not better at anything than Dean. Dean’s hand fists in the sheet, tighter and tighter until the tendons stand out. He kind of likes the feeling, both enjoying someone sucking his cock and wanting to punch that person in the face at the same time.

“‘S enough,” he says at last, tapping two fingers to the side of Roman’s neck, smearing the remnants of the lube that didn’t get rubbed off across his skin. They’re a mess, the two of them, with their wet bodies and sticky bedsheets and butting heads, a fucking trainwreck. No one will be able to look away, by the time they’re done.

Roman travels back up his body, predatory, but Dean hasn’t survived this long without knowing how to handle vultures and wolves, without becoming one of them. He waits, calm, until Roman has only one arm bracing him and then knocks it out from under him, smoothly climbing on top once again. “Think we left off here,” he whispers, sucking a bruise behind Roman’s ear, one that his hair will cover. Dean wants to leave as many of those marks as possible, the kind that no one will ever see, but he’ll remember, still know how to trace years from now. He preps his hand, again, ready to go, and this time when he reaches for Roman his finger sinks into tight heat.

He’s more responsive than Dean could have imagined, eyes squeezed shut and little noises spilling from his mouth, fighting a losing battle to hold still. All those miles of long, black hair is spread across the pillows, and Dean can’t fathom that anyone could have seen this sight, heard these sounds and not fought tooth and nail to keep Roman Reigns in their bed. He adds a finger, scissors and crooks them, gets a half-strangled moan in reward. “‘M gonna fucking ruin you,” he rasps, as much a warning as it is a promise, that same feeling like he’s thirty minutes into a match and he’s finally found his opening, what’s going to let him get the pin. “No one walks away, not when I’m done with them.”

Roman starts laughing, underneath him, breathless, wide smile splitting his face. His teeth are nice, straight, really white. Would look even better stained red. “Do your worst,” he challenges, as if Dean’s threats are idle and empty, like Roman can outlast him even if they aren’t. He growls and grabs the condom from the table between the beds, rolls it on and adds another coat of lube.

“Trust me, you don’t wanna see my worst,” he smirks humorlessly, because Roman, he doesn’t even understand what he’s gotten himself into, here—he couldn’t comprehend, couldn’t handle the sight of something like that. There is something wrong with Dean, some part in his mechanics, some piece that’s missing. He is filled with flaws and imperfections. It overflows inside of him, that ugliness, floods out and destroys everything he touches. But this, this is just enough for him to allow, this little bit that he’ll let himself take, and finally pushing into Roman, that’s enough to wipe all traces of false amusement off his face. Roman hisses out a breath before he’s chuckling, again, ready to continue while Dean’s still gaping, open-mouthed, not over the shock of feeling him, and Dean grits his teeth and starts thrusting forward in earnest.

Roman watches him the entire time with heavy-lidded eyes, vaguely mocking, until Dean adjusts the angle of his hips on one particular thrust and it’s like he dropped an elbow right on Roman’s diaphragm, the sound he makes as all the wind is knocked out of him, the way his eyes fly wide open in shock before slamming closed. Something boils in Dean’s veins, flaring wildly in his chest. He does it again, and again, and Roman’s reaction is the same each time but it’s different, better, more. “That’s good,” he praises, and Roman glares up at him, defiant, at the mildly degrading words. “That’s how you’re gonna fall apart, just like that, and you’re gonna look at me when you do. Not gonna forget who took you down.”

Dean grabs Roman’s arms as they come up, holds them by the wrists before pinning them at his sides. If this were something else, something other than what it is, maybe they’d be holding hands. Roman opens his mouth, to tell him off, probably, but Dean is never above fighting dirty when the need arises, and he sacrifices his hold on one arm to wrap a hand around Roman’s cock, stroking it in time with his thrusts.

The hand he released grabs his hair, again, pulls Dean down to Roman’s mouth, where they can’t quite reach far enough to kiss, so Roman breathes and moans into Dean’s forehead and Dean tattoos the sound through the bone and into his brain. He’s still pulling on Roman’s dick, while it’s rubbing against his stomach, and Roman’s breath hitches and that hand tightens but Dean pulls back anyway, hissing at the sting. A drop of water or sweat slides down his nose, falls onto the center of Roman’s torso. Dean leans over and laps it up, drags his teeth sharply against the skin there, then sits up, pulling the wrist his fingers are still wrapped around with him. He presses his lips to the palm, right on the edge of Roman’s hand, and then bites down sharply, on the tail end of one more rough thrust, watching Roman’s face the entire time.

That’s what sends him over the edge, seeing Roman looking back, that flash in his eyes that Dean’s been chasing this whole time, pain and shock and awe, and it’s everything he was expecting, but even as he takes it all in, before he closes his eyes and sees nothing but red, he’s not sure it, this, the once, is enough.

He rolls to the side, off of Roman, instead of collapsing on him—avoids Roman supporting his weight at all. There’s nothing but silence for a few long minutes, that and the sound of gradually slowing heaving breaths, and when he turns to Roman, Roman is looking back, smiling, looking satisfied with himself, maybe even satisfied with Dean. It makes something twist deep in his gut. Somehow feels even better and simultaneously worse than the triumph of finally getting what he’s wanted.

—And that’s not a thought he’s having, isn’t an emotion he’s remotely prepared to deal with.

Roman’s mouth opens, and for one horrifying moment Dean is worried that he’s going to ask, because he hasn’t so far, that he’ll want to talk about this, but all that comes out is, “Hungry, still?”

“I could eat,” Dean answers, scratching idly at his stomach. “Get some gyros?”

“Thought you wanted sushi.” Roman’s eyes are softer, somehow, open and warm. Dean likes the way he’s looking at him, just like this.

“Well, f’you insist,” he grins, looking for a way to dislodge the warmth that’s taken root in his chest. He’s expecting Roman to just roll his eyes, turn over and away to get dressed—the eye roll does come, but instead it’s accompanied by this weird, indulgent smile and the slide of Roman’s hand into his hair, not pulling or tugging, just resting there on Dean’s head. It’s not as hot as it felt against the rest of his body, stinging and branding, or the chilled iciness that Dean’s always expected. It’s just—warm.

His throat goes dry, and he wants to tell Roman to stop whatever it is he’s doing to Dean that’s quieted all the noise in his brain. He’s not playing fair. He’s always doing _something_ to Dean.

“Probably should get dressed,” Roman says, sounding almost lamentful, his hand still just sitting there, every part of his face fucking smiling and Dean got what he wanted but he still can’t tear his eyes away. Did he ruin Roman or did Roman ruin him? Dean swallows.

“Yeah, okay.”

By the time Seth arrives, tuna rolls in tow, Roman’s lying back on the bed, arms behind his head, Dean in his spinning office chair, and when his eyes find Roman’s face over Seth’s head, rambling on about rice and seaweed and ginger, he’s looking right at Dean.


End file.
